


Golgata

by ivyfic



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Gen, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is that a tattoo gun?" Chas's voice absolutely did not squeak. "Not that I haven't thought an afternoon of non-consensual tattooing from my boss would be a fun time, but aren't you at least supposed to get me hammered first?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golgata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amethyst Shard (AmethystShard)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystShard/gifts).



"Strip."

"Um. What?" It had been odd enough when John asked him up to his apartment. Usually it was wait in the car, Chas, go home, Chas, or, if he was very lucky, why don't you bother Beeman for a while. He'd been inside John's apartment before but only briefly, so had been taking the opportunity to look at the inscriptions carved into the doorframe. If he could find them in one of his books later, maybe he could use them on his own apartment, though there would go the security deposit…

"Just your shirt." John was unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves to reveal triangles of black ink.

Chas stepped further into the apartment, consciously leaving the door open behind him. "Not that I don't appreciate these little chats we have, but I think this may be crossing a few more boundaries than I expected when I woke up this morning."

"Consider it part of your training," John said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the way that meant he was laughing at you on the inside. He reached into a brown paper bag on the table and tossed something at Chas that he caught reflexively. It was a Bic razor—cheap, disposable. And pink.

"And this is for…?"

"Shaving."

"I think you're showing a whole new, previously unsuspected side of yourself, John. I had no idea you had such a kinky— Not that I want to know! I definitely don't want to know! This is all just getting a little bad porn script at the moment."

John grinned. Like a shark. "Have you been spending a lot of time wondering about my porn collection, Chas? I'll give you a hint—it doesn't involve scrawny cab drivers."

Chas swallowed.

John turned back to the bag, pulling out a bottle of holy water, Beeman's painted cross on the side.

"Make sure you get all of your chest hair or you're going to regret it later," John said, pointing with one finger towards his yellowing bathroom.

Chas had no idea what was going on, but then he never did. John was a close-mouthed bastard who loved making him squirm, and he had to admit, this was working. Well, at least the front door was still open and his cab outside. He could totally—wimp out entirely and never find out what had gotten into John's squirrelly little brain. Damn it.

Chas stepped into the bathroom—no door. Very classy, John. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly and looked around for something to hang it on. No hooks or towels—seriously? There were certain standards of living, even for bachelors—so Chas eventually settled on draping it over a chair, followed by his undershirt.

He looked over his shoulder at John, through the warped green glass beside the open doorway. John wasn't paying any attention, and seemed to be setting something up. Chas turned back to the mirror, its backing cracked off in flakes, leaving the reflection dull and spotted. It wasn't that he was self-conscious, per se. He had a nice chest, at least he thought so, if a little concave in the middle. And he'd never managed much chest hair, just a little fuzz on his sternum and around his nipples.

He took the razor out of its packaging and ran it under the tap. A quick look around and he found the shaving cream.

He applied it to the middle of his chest, then looked at himself in the mirror and rolled his eyes. "If the point of this was to make me feel ridiculous, task accomplished," he yelled.

"Good!" John yelled back, and Chas would swear to god he was smirking.

He managed to get most of the hair without nicking himself—he'd always been an electric razor kind of guy, and this was a crappy single blade. He didn't know what to do about the nipples. That seemed like asking for it. After approaching from several different angles, he gave up and decided that if John wanted his nipples shaved he'd have to do it himself. He squeezed his eyes shut. This was not getting any less weird, no matter how much he thought about it.

"Wash up really well, too," John called.

Okay then. Chas was just going to…rub his chest down with soap in his boss's doorless bathroom. With no towels. He rinsed off as best he could, the warm water running into the waistband of his boxers.

He stepped back out of the bathroom, deliberately keeping his arms at his sides—relaxed, he was relaxed—but not quite able to look at John. Which is why he noticed what was on the table immediately.

"Is that a tattoo gun?" Chas's voice absolutely did not squeak. "Not that I haven't thought an afternoon of non-consensual tattooing from my boss would be a fun time, but aren't you at least supposed to get me hammered first?"

"Have a seat." John indicated the chair in front of him.

"I'm good, thanks," Chas said, thinking longingly of his shirts, still in the bathroom.

John hung his head for a moment. "Are you serious about being an exorcist?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

John looked back up at him. "Then you can't be following me around without any protection."

Chas fumbled at his belt, pulling out his St. Christopher's medal. "I have protection."

"Not enough. If a demon wants in, they're barely going to notice that to laugh at."

Chas's eyes skated to the tattoos on John's arms. He'd only caught glimpses before, but if he remembered correctly, those were symbols of power, not protection. Summoning. But then, John had been an exorcist for a long time. Those probably weren't his only tattoos. His apartment was carved with spells, lined with holy water. He must have done the same to himself.

And now he was offering the same to Chas.

Chas sat.

John poured holy water onto a cloth and wiped down the center of Chas's chest, muttering something to himself. It was cold, and gave Chas goosebumps.

"It's ah—it's a little chilly in here, isn't it?" Chas couldn't help twitching his leg, trying to distract himself from the fact that John was touching his chest. His face was just inches away.

John pressed a hand to Chas's knee, stopping the jiggling. "Be still."

"Okay," Chas said. "Okay." His eyes darted to the table. "But aren't you supposed to have like, gloves or something? Everything sterile? Universal precautions, and all that."

John looked at him coolly. "This isn't just a tattoo. In order to protect you, it has to be applied a certain way."

"No gloves?"

"No gloves." John smirked. "And you don't want to know what's in the ink."

Chas glanced at the suddenly menacing bottle of black. If Beeman made it, no telling what was in it. Bug carapaces, probably. He shuddered.

"Now hold still. And no talking. Don't break my concentration."

Chas opened his mouth, then at John's glance shut it and nodded.

The first part was awkward, John carefully applying the stencil. Chas kept having to fight the urge to giggle, his diaphragm fluttering at the tickling touch. He examined the design upside down. It was a cross with two cross hatches, one slightly shorter than the other. It stood on three lines, like a pedestal. The design went straight down his sternum, the cross bars extending just above his nipples, the pedestal over the bottom of his rib cage.

John then poured some of the ink out into a cap and turned on the tattoo gun, its whir incongruous with John's continued muttering, which Chas now realized was a Latin prayer. Not just a prayer—an invocation. So that this symbol act as a shield.

It hurt. A lot. The first touch made him jerk, earning a glare from John. It felt like John was very slowly, very deliberately, running a scalpel over his chest, pushing it into the bone. Chas felt like he couldn't breathe, like he'd just run a marathon or cried his eyes out. But somehow the breath kept pushing in and out, moving his skin slightly against John's hands. The tattoo gun kept pressing into his skin.

John paused frequently to blot the blood with a cloth soaked in holy water. Chas wasn't sure that holy water killed bacteria, too, but if John had survived it, he could, too.

The pain was almost meditative in its endlessness, creeping slowly across his skin. When the machine clicked off, Chas had completely lost track of where he was and how much time had passed. His eyes caught on the watch at John's wrist—hours had passed. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to breathe against the afterimage of the pain.

John pressed something against his chest, and Chas's eyes snapped open. He took a deep breath, pushing his pulverized-feeling sternum against John's hand. John was taping a gauze pad over the tattoo. When he was done, he handed Chas a jar of ointment and a pamphlet with the words, "TATTOO AFTERCARE," printed on it.

Chas flicked open the pamphlet and spotted a logo. "Did you steal this from a tattoo parlor down on Sunset?"

John ignored him, walking instead to the bathroom to retrieve Chas's shirts. Chas didn't think he could face them right now. Everything still felt bright around the edges, or like the moment right after a loud noise.

John dropped the shirts in Chas's lap, then gestured toward his chest. "It's a—"

"Cross of the archangels," Chas interrupted. "Also known as a Golgata cross."

John rocked back on his heels, his face blank. Chas thought for a moment he looked impressed.

"Well, the archangels are a bunch of dicks, but you can trust them, at least, to have no love for demons. No demon will dare touch you when you're under their protection." John turned back to the table, cleaning up.

Chas skipped his undershirt, but shrugged into his flannel, gingerly buttoning it over the gauze. "Thanks," he said, though that didn't feel exactly right for the situation.

"I'll see you tomorrow," John replied, not looking up.

"Sure thing." Chas balled the ointment and pamphlet into his undershirt, kneading them and hesitating for a moment. John didn't look up. "Sure." He headed for the door. He glanced back just for a moment, just long enough to see John smiling to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> My entire knowledge of tattooing comes from google-fu and interrogating a tattooed coworker, so I apologize for any mistakes. The design of the cross of archangels can be seen [here](http://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%A4%D0%B0%D0%B9%D0%BB:Cross_of_the_archangels_1.png). I was flipping through the Norton Dictionary of Symbols and it seemed fitting.


End file.
